Page 10 of Bringing Chelsea Home

“I did mark him pretty well,” Elaine agreed with a laugh. “But don’t blame Griff for this. If I’d thought for a moment Big Daddy would try something at Sister Bernie’s memorial, I would have taken Griff with me.”

“Big Daddy knows no shame,” Hank said. “And no blame to Griff.”

Relieved Hank didn’t think he’d screwed up his first day on this job, Griff said, “Miller is sending the artist’s sketch to all precincts. They’ll be watching for him.”

“He’s probably gone to ground by now,” Hank replied. “Big Daddy will not risk another failure. But we can’t make the mistake of being unaware even for a minute. Which is why I sent Patrick Danton to join you. An extra pair of eyes is going to be needed, like you were for Mac and Anne, and you’ll need a driver.”

“I’ve known about Big Daddy for years.” Hands suddenly cold, Elaine reached for her cup. Appreciating its warmth, she said, “I never thought I’d be going toe to toe with him. But then, I’ve never crossed him, either.”

“He’s a psychopath,” Hank said bluntly. “His answer to your interference is to kill you, simple as that.”

“If interfering with him might help me find my cousin Chelsea, I’ll do just about anything,” Elaine declared. “I’ve no reason to think he knows where she is, but what if he does?”

She watched the men exchange glances. “Your cousin Chelsea?” Griff repeated.

“Yeah,” Elaine said cautiously, the old sorrow threatening to break through her exhausted defenses. “My cousin Chelsea Prescott ran away with her boyfriend Martin Driscoll four years ago when she was fourteen.” She went on to describe her family’s search, her suspicions that the teens were lured away by traffickers, and to receiving postcards from Chelsea from different places over the years, including the one this past Monday. “So even though we never found a trace of them, I know at least Chelsea is alive. Her handwriting is unmistakable.”

“I’m sorry your family had to go through that.” Sympathy laced Griff’s soft reply. “Would Chelsea be eighteen now?”

“Are her parents still looking for her?” Hank added his own question.

Their concern brought tears to Elaine’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “Her birthday is Christmas Eve,” she said. “Her parents-her mom was my maternal aunt-were killed in a car accident when she was six years old. That’s why she came to live with us. Mom’s parents didn’t want anything to do with them or Chelsea because they married after Chelsea was born. My dad’s parents died twenty years ago, so my parents adopted her. We spoiled her, but she was a good kid. Hearing that Big Daddy might be bringing in girls who are underage for any reason, makes this very, very personal.”

She gripped the cup’s handle. “That was another reason why I called you. Knowing BP helped Anne Hamilton find Katie and the other kids, what did I have to lose? Maybe you can help me find Chelsea and bring her home.”

A sudden weariness and the old guilt threatened to release the tears she’d been holding back all day and she put her cup aside. “Excuse me, please.”

She managed to exit the room without running, but in the living room, her legs gave way, and she sank onto one of the loveseats, propped her elbows on its arms and wept into her hands. For Bernie. For Chelsea and Martin and all the missing, broken kids out there.

So silent was his approach, she didn’t hear Griff enter the room. His scent, something clean and strong along with that of soap enveloped her, and she felt him sit beside her. Like a lost creature seeking warmth, she turned and buried her face against his shoulder, weeping into the soft fabric of his sweater, while the slow, steady beat of his heart sang in her ears.

He didn’t say anything, just let her cry until she sat back and wiped her face with her hand. “Sorry,” she gulped.

“For crying? Don’t be silly.” He went to the kitchen, returning with a napkin. “If you ever meet my mother, please don’t tell her I didn’t have a handkerchief with me.”

His rueful expression bordered on the comic, and Eliane laughed as she put the napkin to good use. “I promise,” she said. “Moms don’t need to know everything.”

“You’ve got that right,” he agreed. “And I swear, mine always knows everything.”

“I didn’t hear you coming,” she said, tucking the napkin into her pocket.

“No shoes,” he said, pointing at his bare feet. “That carpet is the softest thing I’ve ever walked on.”

“Me too,” she whispered, enjoying the warmth flowing off him. “Are we done with our meeting?”

“Yep. Dinner any second now.”

The oven timer chimed in confirmation, and he offered her his arm. “Dinner at last. Shall we eat?”

They strolled to the kitchen, his strength pulsing through her hand, a strength that suggested this was a man who could and would keep her safe. Some of the tension she’d carried since Bernie’s death dissolved and it was with some reluctance she released his arm to sit at the table.

Over a stroganoff casserole, salad, breadsticks, and wine, Griff entertained her with stories of his family and their summer vacations in Europe. His mother was in much demand to direct theater productions and always insisted on bringing her family with her. He had an easy, relaxed charm, obviously comfortable in his skin. Elaine would bet he was that way with everyone and wondered what had led him to join Brotherhood Protectors. How odd to think they’d only met that morning.

“Something wrong?” he asked, re-filling her wine glass.

“I was just thinking,” she said slowly. “We just met this morning and so much has happened.”

His eyebrows danced up and down. “Tired of me already?”

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